


Parasite

by bishounen_curious



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Anxiety Disorder, F/M, First Time, Oral Sex, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Pity Sex, Porn with Feelings, Self-Pity, almost anxiety attack, an emotional rollercoaster for all your feel needs!, everything is porn if you just try hard enough, mentioned character deaths, stiles is a danger to his own happiness, stiles really hates himself, teenagers have to complicate everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bishounen_curious/pseuds/bishounen_curious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She’s a parasite.” Lydia started, lips tightly pursed. “You’re her host. She feeds off your energy. She’s found something to sustain her stupidity, and that thing is you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parasite

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while, and I still don't know if I'm actually happy with it. I just felt I had to post it, and if I can get some actual constructive criticism for anything that doesn't work, that would be hella gucci. Also, apologizing for the possible feels. Sorry, kids.

“She’s a parasite.”

Besides the horrific gunshots and explosions coming from his Xbox 360, it had been rather silent in Stiles’ room. Neither he nor Lydia had spoken a word to one another in quite some time, and her sudden interjection had caught him off guard. Not off guard enough to pause the game, however.

“What?” He replied, attention divided between her words and the horde of enemies shooting at him.

She repeated herself, voice slightly-edged this time around. 

“Who’s a parasite?” He switched to his Uzi and sprayed a round out, cursing victoriously when the others screamed and vanished from the map.

“You know who I’m talking about.”

“Uhhhh,” he deadpanned as he reloaded his Uzi, “if I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.”

Lydia was quiet for a moment before she hissed.

“Malia.”

That’s when he hit the ‘pause’ button. 

Stiles turned to face her, giving her his undivided attention this time. Lydia’s mouth was a scarlet pout. She was inspecting her nails but he knew better than to assume that she was actually examining them. Her eyebrows were ever-so-slightly knit and her posture was too rigid. 

Lydia Martin was pissed and she didn’t put an ounce of effort to try and hide it.

He didn’t have any patience to try and fish out either the source of her ire or her words’ meaning. Clearing his throat he asked, his tone gently patronizing, “And why is Malia a ‘parasite?’”

That sardonic tone didn’t please the redhead. Her gaze refocused on Stiles’ eyes and she responded coldly. “She’s a parasite.” Lydia began, lips tightly pursed. “You’re her host. She feeds off your energy. She’s found something to sustain her stupidity, and that thing is you.” 

“Ouch.” 

Had all that been festering inside of her the whole time? And he had thought it was just another one of their comfortable silences. Just a lazy Thursday afternoon. So much for that. “You know she’s not stupid, Lydia. Just… inexperienced with functioning as a human being. Because, y’know, that whole were-coyote thing.”

“It’s been a couple of months. She should know better by now.” Every word was unforgiving, intended as an attack. An annoyed sigh left him quietly as he resumed his game. He switched his weapon to a grenade launcher and let one sail through the air and land in the pit where all the new enemies were grouped. A series of pre-death screeches burst through the speakers. He couldn’t take this conversation seriously. It was probably just another one of Lydia’s many mood swings. It would pass if he didn’t feed the fire. So he tried to ignore her with the death cries of the digitized rebel-forces.

But, that was a lot harder in practice. Stiles was Stiles and he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re being really unfair and - wait, I thought you liked her?” He threw some kindling into the sparks. “At least I thought you did; marginally at the most.” He waited to see if it would burn or not.

Apparently, those words caught aflame instantaneously and turned those insignificant embers into a blaze. 

The banshee’s expression shifted into a mask of blatant disgust. Not that he saw it, anyway. He heard it. When Lydia removed herself from her makeshift throne on his bed with a slight creak and fabric rustle he frowned. Was she leaving? Why would she do that? Did he take it too far? Stiles quickly turned off his Xbox, without saving, and tried his best to diffuse the ever-shortening fuse that was his friend’s temper. 

He saw that she had her bag in her hands. “Woah, woah, woah. Where are you going?”

“Home.” She didn’t even look at him.

“Why?”

“Because you’re an idiot, Stiles.” She slipped on her baby blue cardigan and smoothed out the cotton of her black sundress. “She’s absorbing your intelligence too, apparently,” was a muttered afterthought.

“Oh c’mon, what’s wrong with you?” His voice gained a couple of decibels as he watched his chances of salvaging the situation melt away as the redhead headed towards his bedroom door.

Her fingers were wrapped around the doorknob but she didn’t push it open. She paused for a moment before she seethed, “I don’t like her.”

Stiles just gawked at the back of her, speechless. He didn’t know what to say.

“I loathe her, Stiles.”

A different kind of silence permeated the room from before: whole and cripplingly heavy.

The only word that he could manage was ‘why’ and even then it was merely above a whisper. 

Like stone, she was silent.

He had to keep trying. “Why do you hate her?”

No response.

“Lydia, c’mon. You’re acting like a child.”

He could’ve sworn he saw her posture tense but she kept her lips sealed. He wracked his brain for answers. His conscience sifted through the past several months like a computer: scanning, analyzing, searching. 

He recalled all of them together; Scott, Kira, Derek, Ethan, Malia, Lydia, himself. Laughing. Drinking cheap beer in the woods on a school night. Talking about silly things that were only funny at 2AM. Sitting in class. Grieving together over fallen friends. Smiles and frowns stretching their cheeks. Driving around without a purpose, desperately searching for one.

Conversations and jokes staccato’d his recollections of images, colors and feelings. All of a sudden, memories of warm fingers in his own flooded his brain. That dark, narrow face was close to his, his focus on her. Her brunette hair, her slender frame, her nimble hands. Alway gently guiding naivety to everyday enlightenment. All the while he recalled emerald eyes watching them from outside their space, detached and just barely sour. Contempt just boiling below the surface.

Stiles cursed, maybe to himself or aloud, he couldn’t tell. 

He felt so dumb.

“Lydia… Are you… jealous?”

His brain didn’t process fully what came next. He remembered her turning and moving towards him, her pale face sharply defiant and then a harsh, hot sting igniting the nerves of his left cheek. He might have gasped, he wasn’t sure. For a moment, he just looked at her, stunned-still. 

“Did you just slap me…?”

“Don’t treat me like a child.”

“What did I do?!”

“I’m not an idiot. Don’t treat me like you treat her!”

“Lydia, I don’t-“

“Just stop, Stiles. You’re just digging your grave deeper.”

He was positive that his cheek was an angry color now. It felt angry. He felt angry.

He clenched his teeth and met her hot gaze head-on. Stiles was seeing her in a new light. Her winged eyeliner looked like blades, her mouth the color of dried blood. She looked like a killer masquerading as the prom queen. She was hyperreal; it felt hyperreal. And he couldn’t control what came out of his mouth next.

“What the actual fuck is your problem?” 

His pulse pounded in his skull and his stomach felt like it was crawling with insects, multiplying and multiplying, overwhelming his gut with grotesque, squirming energy. Her brows knitted further at the verbal attack, but she didn’t get a chance to fight back. She was too slow on the upswing. 

“I think I’m right; you are jealous”, he could feel himself spit, “and- no, stop, let me finish- Malia needs someone to help her. She needs someone to guide her because she clearly doesn’t know what she’s doing. She can’t be on her own. She’s a child that needs help, someone to hold her hand and show her what’s right and what’s wrong. And it’s not like we’re fucking.” The word was too acidic on his tongue, he had to spit it out. “But would that even matter to you? If we were, I mean? Why would you care?” 

He couldn’t stop. It was pouring out of him like blood out of a deep gash and there wasn’t a way to suture it shut. “It’s not like you’ve ever been desperate for my attention like that before. I mean, when you had the chance you treated me like an insignificant nothing. An unpopular, no-rank piece of shit. Now, god forbid, if there’s even a chance that I’m with someone, you treat me like this? Like the bad guy? You’re a fucking princess, Lydia Martin. You’re too fucking much. If you can’t pick and choose everything it’s suddenly the end of the fucking world. I’m sorry if I crossed you, your royal highness, but you can get over yourself.”

He sucked in a breath when he finished. Those insects inside of him felt like they were still growing, now eating away at his stomach lining. Gastric acid burned through him, digesting his flesh into bloody, gamey pulp. He swore he could taste blood. His heart hiccuped erratically in his chest and he felt light-headed. Instant regret welled in him and swelled his veins and capillaries with its’ cold, dead weight. He felt nauseous. 

He almost vomited when he saw her face. 

Even under all that concealer, bronzer and blush her skin looked colorless, drained. Her pupils were shrunken, like a pair of bedbugs under a motel mattress. But her eyes were dry. Dry and empty. Lydia just stared at him, her mouth slack with incredulity. 

It was painful, piercing his flesh, ribboning his innards, swelling his tongue. He felt like he was dying. 

“Oh.”

Her expression hadn’t changed except for her lips to form the simple sound. Stiles tried to find his own voice but his voice-box was out of juice. All its battery life was wasted moments ago. He didn’t have the capacity to even form any coherent sounds.

“Is that really how you feel, Stiles?”

He was going to vomit.

His silence proved only to fuel her own voice. “You really feel that I’m a princess? That when things don’t go my way I throw a tantrum? Let me ask you this: When has anything this past year gone my way?” 

Stiles couldn’t tell if her voice had cracked or not. His brain felt foggy and he couldn’t really figure out what was happening. Her face was still awfully pale but something in her eyes had changed. His Adam’s apple bobbed with his swallowed spit, tasting bile.

“Name one instance. Name one fucking instance, Stiles.”

He was trying, he was trying so hard.

But he couldn’t breathe. 

“Having trouble, hmm?” Suddenly her body was kinetic; she was right in front of him, looking up at him struggling, not even batting an eyelash at the unhealthy way his breath wasn’t there, the way his skin was turning almost translucent. 

“Let me try to help you. How about the time my boyfriend almost died? The time that he turned into a bloodthirsty lizard that tried to kill us?” No answer. “Perhaps maybe the time I was kidnapped? Or those months where I hallucinated and suffered because of Peter? Oh, I forgot about the time I watched you, Scott, and Allison almost die in those bathtubs! That was a fucking riot! Oh! Or, my favorite and most recent personal victory: when my best friend and boyfriend died?”

Her fists were shaking. Her voice was shrill. And she was doing her best not to make her makeup run. 

“Lydia-“

“Don’t you mean ‘princess’?”

“I’m sorry-“

“It’s too late for half-assed apologies. I’m done.”

“Lydia, please.”

“Go call that she-wolf of yours. She needs you. Maybe you can train her to blow you or something.”

“Jesus Christ, Lydia.” His voice was weak, hardly a voice at all. But whatever it was, it was enough to stop her tongue and hold her gaze once again on the brunet boy that looked far too frail to be left alone.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

He decided to try. What else did he have to lose?

“I don’t want to hear this again-“

“No!” His words were gravel in the back of his throat. “Please, listen to me.” He tried to suck in some air but he just sounded like a half dead animal on its deathbed. “She’s not my girlfriend. Malia isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Stiles.”

“No, listen to me.” He was almost wheezing, his lungs tightening with every syllable. His peripheral vision started to blur, his world closing in on him, just like his lungs. “I’m not dating her. I never would.”

Neither of them moved. 

Lydia was too uncertain and unhinged, Stiles too undone, too scared of what would happen if this didn’t work. 

In the following seconds their eyes just locked, too nervous to make a move. After a moment, both felt the urge to test the waters after the storm. 

Lydia submerged her toes first. “Why?”

“Why, what?” He croaked.

“Why would you never date her?”

With a sandpaper throat and vacuum lungs it was impossible to respond. His eyes were leaky and he just traced the curve of her jaw with his gaze, not intrepid enough look her in the eyes. 

Especially when he felt that these words were not as true as he wanted them to be.

“Because you’re the only person I would ever want to date.”

He had imagined this moment in so many ways. In the beginning of their acquaintance, its the only thing he thought about. He had fantasized them both maybe watching a bad movie in his room, sharing a bottle of tasteless wine he snatched from his Dad’s stash. He pictured himself somewhat tipsily admitting all of his feelings to her, because that was something that drunk Stiles would do. Sober Stiles was too anxious, too uptight to even think about such forwardness.

He also thought maybe he would be passing stupid notes to her during Econ, acting like the love interest in a cheesy romcom, scribbling subpar haikus about how gorgeous she was. How lovely you are/Your screams are a love potion/ My banshee babe. 

Or even better, he pictured himself knocking on her window in the middle of the night and getting her to come with him, driving them around in his Jeep, windows open, top down, of course. He would stop on that perfectly-elevated ledge overlooking the entirety of Beacon Hills. They would lay on the the hood of his car, leaning in to touch lips and laugh at how long it took for them to kiss. He pictured this moment to be maybe like this.

But never like this. 

This scenario had never been his ideal: with his shoulders drooping slightly forward, eyes wet, lungs not functioning, stomach weighty with negative emotions and all atop the eve of an anxiety attack. 

Especially after he finally started to move on, accepting her as nothing more than a best friend. After he had already put his heart towards Malia. 

After they had already hooked up in his Jeep a week ago.

A visceral shudder swept through his chest as he mustered up the will to meet her gaze. The terror of rejection crawled down his spinal column and flooded his belly, the danger of a colossal lie being exposed squeezing his lungs. When he finally saw- her really saw her- her face was unreadable. 

He fucked up.

She knew, she knew what he did with her. Why’d- How’d he ever think there was even a chance?

Suddenly Lydia was in his space and those manicured fingers were in his hair and they pulled his scull toward hers.

This wasn’t real.

“You’re a dick.”

“What’re you doing…?” He was too afraid to continue.

“What you always wanted.”

He could taste the wax of lipstick, feel it smear over his front teeth and stain the off-white bones a deep red. Her clothed-flesh pressed his own as their mouths devoured each other, their fingers grappling and pulling at fabric covering skin they wanted to touch, scratch, gouge out and claim as their own. The heels of his palms pressed up into the padding of her bra and squeezed, attempting to feel the flesh beneath. He couldn’t think, couldn’t reason, couldn’t argue: she was right. 

This was what he always wanted. 

But did he deserve this? It was merely a murmur of a thought in the back of his mind that was forgotten as soon as it surfaced.

She bit his lower lip and the sting made him grunt. He could feel her lips curl in the violently-messy kiss and she pushed him backwards. Stiles was on his back and she was hovering above, her weight keeping him from moving much. 

Those confined tits of hers were rubbing against his chest as her mouth descended down the path of his jugular vein. She trailed more lipstick and saliva along the flesh of his neck. The brunet moaned. Too much adrenaline was pumping through him: he was oversensitive and far too breathy to not be a concern but for some reason it made it better. It wasn’t necessarily romantic. It wasn’t the vanilla love he had pictured in his mind. It was raw. Real. It was exactly what the two of them were: always hurried, reckless, desperate to have everything now because there might not be a later to wait for. 

Stiles arched his entirety against hers and shut his eyes from the sensation. 

“Lydia.”

The syllables themselves felt good in his mouth. He rolled her name around his tongue, coating it in his spit, licking it along the inside of his teeth, laving into the softness of his gums. The boy caressed the expanse of her back encouragingly, wanting her to feel everything that she was doing to him and more. 

A small noise rumbled in her throat at the touch,and he was suddenly hyper-aware that he was the one that made her make that noise. Incredulity mixed with just a little possession and pride overwhelmed him.

He did deserve this.

Meanwhile, the redhead was mouthing his Adam’s apple, grazing it with her whitened teeth. She shrugged off her own cardigan and watched the boy writhe and moan beneath, drinking in the sight of Stiles Stilinski feeling pleasure. She was staring. At him. He felt feverish. She probably thought he looked like a sick child in the pediatric wing of a hospital, the way he was shivering and making those soft sounds in the back of his throat. Or maybe she thought he was an animal in heat. Stiles couldn’t decide which description was more apt. That internal debate was suddenly cut short when he suddenly felt hot dampness on the crotch of his jeans.

There was a bundle of black lace balled in her fist and she tossed it off towards the floor with a sultry smirk. He could feel his pulse accelerate in his dick. She was completely bare down there. That was Lydia’s pussy touching his jeans.

She pressed down into him and rutted against the rough denim. She breathed in deeply through her open mouth and Stiles pondered for a second about whether or not that felt as fucking good to her as it did to him. He couldn’t ponder that too long because she went beneath his shirt to run her nails up and down his sides. 

“Don’t worry. I have a condom,” she exhaled, louder than normal, and continued to stroke the skin, leaving soft red lines that felt so uncomfortably good.

It took him a second to decipher the meaning of her statement. When it finally dawned on him he almost choked on the excess saliva in his mouth. “Why do we need one of those, exactly?” He knew exactly why they did. He just wanted to hear that pretty red mouth say it.

“You’re a dick.” Stiles was about to retort something he thought was rather clever when her fingernails took a detour to curve up and skim over his nipples. He cried out. Was he even supposed to be that sensitive there? 

“I don’t want a child. But I still want you in me. So,” her arm dipped to the floor and fished around her purse before pulling out a small plastic square, “we’re wrapping you up nice and snug.” The banshee blinked slowly, her pupils blown. She rocked against his confined dick again. Stiles hissed at the too-dull friction. He wanted more. Needed more. He wanted to bury deep in that sweet cunt of hers. And claim it. Love it. Fuck it until Lydia curled into him and screamed her throat raw.

“I…”

He found it difficult to talk when he was this hard. But not as difficult to think. Millions of thoughts were suddenly buzzing through his brain. He wanted to fuck her. Lose his virginity in her. Kiss her. Hold her. Love her. Make the mood less intense and crack a joke that would have them both lgiggling mid-thrust. He wanted to touch every inch of her and memorize every single atom of her being. He wanted her to sit on his face. For her to kneel between his legs and swallow him whole. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair and have her ream him out for messing it up. He wanted to talk to her seriously about everything they never were serious about. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. That she was everything. 

But he couldn’t. Not at the moment. Sure he couldn’t talk. But he could move. 

He was hardly putting much brain power into lifting her hips up and away enough so he could undo his fly and wiggle his jeans and underwear low down his legs and then off completely, kicking them to the floor. It was easy to watch her tear the plastic wrapper open with her teeth and fingers and then watch her unoccupied hand trace its length from root to swollen tip with the pad of her so-soft thumb. He didn’t have to even do anything when she rolled the condom onto him so fucking slow. Her fingers checked to make sure it was on properly. She gave his cock a languid stroke. He gasped. He reciprocated; he dared to move his own fingers down to check her, softly prodding through her folds and pressing inside that slick hot cunt. 

She was letting him in, she was handing over some of her precious control. For once.

And then he was out of her and those slick fingers were on her thighs, rubbing small circles as he struggled to speak. “How… where.. um, like this?” He was starting to feel small again, breathless in a not-fun way. 

For the first time since she walked into his house, Lydia genuinely smiled. Reaching down she touched his bottom lip with her fingers and then dragged it down his chin and then followed down the curve of his neck. “There’s no need, Stiles,” she started softly, moving her hips to align with his, “to feel so…” she was pressing down onto him and suddenly he was inside her so quick and it was so hot he was about to go undone, “…anxious.”

And then she started to move. 

She had her thighs splayed out on each side of his hips and she lifted herself up. Slowly, so slowly. He intimately felt her walls drag against his burning prick. Stiles could feel her lungs inflate with air as she sighed. And then he felt them deflate with a satisfied moan as she slid back down and filled herself up with him. 

His hazel eyes were surely glassy as he watched her press down onto him. Her reddish curls bounced with her body and her sundress. That damn thing that was still draped over her and it was obscuring his view of those full tits and that burning cunt. How hadn’t he made a priority to ripped her bra off before? The veins in his hands stood out, swollen with blood and his erratic pulse because he was having sex with the one person that mattered, and tugged at the fluttering fabric around their adjoined hips. She smirked at him knowing full well what the teenaged boy wanted and instead slammed backdown and rolled her hips around, grinding back and forth in a way that made Stiles open his mouth in a silent but breathy scream and arch his neck into the softness of the mattress below.

“Take off your fucking dress.”

“No.”

He arched his brow. “What do you mean, ‘no?’”

Her face twisted into a baiting leer. “A princess doesn’t have to answer stupid questions.”

That was it.

He flipped them over with a surprising feat of strength that even he didn’t know that he had in him. 

The hem of her dress was level with her navel but he didn’t look down to see himself pulsing half-inside her dripping snatch. He didn’t notice the way perspiration dotted her cleavage, make the flesh glimmer and beg to be tasted. Instead, he bore his eyes into her own, mouth open with greedy inhalations and pale cheeks flushed with hot, hormone-filled blood. Shock covered her face and they just breathed together, erratically for a moment, both as taken aback by his strength and audacity. But then his balls started to ache and his body just surged forward and burrowed as far and hard as he was physically capable of doing so, making that ache into something that felt so good.

Lydia cried out in surprised pleasure. Her insides clenched around him with the thrust and that primal instinct somewhere beneath those layers of anxiety made him want to feel that tightness drag along his shaft like a moving vice so he pressed in again and again and again. 

And again.

He was watching his volume even though he knew his Dad wouldn’t be home until late. He was trying so hard. He was crying out through his nose, humming in his throat, leaving small bruises on her hips. She wasn’t fairing much better. Those heavily made up eyes were half-mast, unfocused sight through her mascara’d eyelashes as he fucked her good. So good. Small but deep moans exited in her throat. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, crescent indentations coming through the thinness of his t-shirt. She looked so beautifully unreal like something he wasn’t supposed to touch.

But like all the other things he wasn’t supposed to do, he did it anyway. 

All his weight went into each thrust. He pushed in as far as he could go. As hard as he could. And Lydia seemed to receive him well. She welcomed him whole, her body warmer and wetter with every passing moment. It wasn’t anything he ever experience before. To have someone writhing beneath you and holding onto you, letting you use them to make yourself feel good. It was better than that whoozy light-headedness from taking one vodka shot too many. Better than jerking yourself off into the familiarity of your own, too-dry palm. It smelled better. It tasted better. It sounded better and looked better. Stiles never wanted to stop. If he could go on forever and Lydia would let him, he would fuck this girl until the day he died.

Soft helpless noises slipped past her lips as the pace grew more erratic. Her forehead was pressed into the brunet’s collarbone and she panted loudly, humid breath warming his already too warm skin beneath his shirt. Every so often she would cry out, maybe because he jammed his dick into her at a good angle. She was sweating bullets, his beautiful princess Lydia was perspiring, and a string of swears left her open mouth and rushed straight down to cock in individual pulses that made him realize how close he was to cumming. She was begging; begging to be fucked harder and faster. How could he not oblige her? Especially when she said ‘fucking please’? He lifted her tight ass up into his crotch and pulled her even closer, trying to give the princess exactly what she wanted. The desperate noise that she made sounded better than any of those girls on the internet ever did. 

He knew he was doing something right.

Stiles could taste his heartbeat on his tongue. The sounds his naked skin was making as it slammed into her own was something he hadn’t expected to hear. Maybe he thought their first time would sound sweeter, more innocently beautiful and frilly, just like she was. Without flaws. Soft. Elegant. But, no, not quite. This was rough and messy. It was as filthy as a sex tape. His flesh had taken on a sheen of shimmering sweat that was bleeding through the thin cotton of his shirt. Lydia’s own skin was sticking against his. And the smell. It smelt like… like, sex. It smelt filthy and musky and just raw. He didn’t know if this was how it was supposed to be. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know and it was not the time to ask her. Whatever he was doing- they were doing together, felt wonderful. It felt like the precipice of completion, and they were completing each other. 

It was like there was a piece of his own jigsaw that suddenly appeared when she kissed him. It fit perfectly into him. He didn’t feel as lopsided or awkward. He felt whole.

And he wondered if she felt the same, too.

Stiles couldn’t be positive she did but all he could do was try.

His gut felt as tight as his burning prick as he thrust forward. His pace seemed as unhinged as he felt but that didn’t really seem to matter. The banshee’s thighs had wrapped around his hips and she was pressing into his own intrusions as hard as he was. Her body hiccuped with pleasure as they both got closer and closer. When he slammed into her at a higher angle, she bit her lip and sobbed. 

Stiles choked on his own air and almost came when he saw her like that.

Lydia noticed his body stiffening and she pulled his face down to hers and touched his nose to her own. She pulled his hips closer, deeper, and she rasped, “Just let yourself go.”

He doesn’t know how to process that. It was too much stimulation. He felt and tasted her breath in his mouth. He was so far inside her that he didn’t know if it even felt good for her anymore. He didn’t know what to even do. How could he just let go..? He didn’t know how to do that but Lydia seemed so sure that he could. So he did the first thing that came to mind. 

His mouth was on hers. Their lips mashed together as he sloppily tried to keep up his pace but he didn’t have the coordination to both kiss and fuck, so he just tried as hard as he could. The redhead bit his tongue when it squirmed into her mouth. It hurt really good and he smiled and she laughed and he just pinned her down into the mattress and kept her steady as he kept pushing in and in and in. After a moment his laughter morphed into moans and he just bit his bottom lip and groaned as he felt the condom get sticky inside and his own pulse almost pop his heart inside his ribcage.

So much better than jacking off.

He felt bare. She was still quivering. His awkwardly long fingers combed through her sweaty curls and gave her a half-lidded, exhausted smile. She grinned back and wiggled her pelvis. He almost coughed from the added stimulation. She still throbbed around him and immediately it dawned on him that she hadn’t finished. His face colored with the blood that was rushing away from his spent cock. She dug her nails into his scalp, which felt surprisingly good to his post-orgasm body. 

She almost made him shoot his load again when she suggested in her husky, testosterone-heavy voice, “Eat me out.” 

How could he ignore that command? He pulled out of her without hesitation. Still trying to regain normality in his lungs, he scooted himself back and looked down at her spread thighs. Her bare cunt was glistening with thick, semi-opaque stickiness. It was flushed a deep red, the color warming her folds and lips so invitingly. It was exactly how he thought she’d look, but the real deal was so much better. Lydia’s hand slid down her torso and her middle finger circled her clit languidly, using her fingers to spread herself for Stiles in an obvious invitation. “Look later. Do now.”

He didn’t need any more persuading. 

Stiles leaned down and kissed her, just making contact with her naked mound. He made his way down, leaving those gentle pecks along her slit. Those kisses soon became wetter with added tongue. Eventually, the kisses turned into sucks. 

He had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He was sure Lydia could tell. Maybe that didn’t matter, though, because she was mewling like a cat. Her hips unabashedly ground up against his mouth. She cried out things he wanted her to do. Suck her clit. Run his tongue up her entire slit. Suck her clean while he fucked her with his fingers. With her guidance and encouraging sounds she quickly devolved into a shivering mess on his bed, dripping onto his blanket and jerking up into his mouth with every tremor that thrummed through her.

When he pulled away he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wiped it off on his bedspread. He’d do laundry later. 

Lydia had her eyes closed as she recovered. Her red curls were splayed all around her, frizzy and in need of some serious brushing. She didn’t seem to care, not at the moment anyway. Instead she looked so at peace laying there; her lips were even forming a faint smile. It made his chest warm. She was perfect. This was perfect. He just wanted to curl up with her and sleep.

Stiles yawned.

Her eyes peaked out behind closed lids at the breach in the silence. His exhaustion was as evident as day and she couldn’t help but laugh with that breathless voice of hers. 

“Ready to go again?”

“Shut up.”

Lydia just laughed harder.

Stiles crawled atop her and silenced her with a kiss. It wasn’t like the kisses before. It was sweet. It was lazy, not worried about anything past or future. It was just concerned with now. Now, how their lips melded together so nicely. How his breath left through his nose and fanned her face. How natural his weight was resting on her hips. It was something that wasn’t flawless; nothing was without its imperfections. But this had few of those flaws, and both of them were more than happy with how this was, and how much it could be.

A ringtone disrupted their scene. The moment would have to wait.

Stiles pulled up and away and looked down at his pants haphazardly strewn on the floor. His back pocket was vibrating and alit with a concealed screen. He was getting a call. 

He swallowed hard and dared to look at Lydia. Her smile was reduced to nothing more than a line. It wasn’t even a smile anymore. He didn’t have the courage to even try to read deeper into her expression. She deserved to have the call go to voicemail, to have more time spent on her to reassure her that this mattered and she meant something. That she meant everything. But he knew this ringtone. It wasn’t his default; it was specific. It wasn’t his Dad, or Scott or anyone else but her. He knew she would keep calling until he picked up, because she was like that, and he’d rather pick up now than explain to Lydia later. 

Right?

He got up to get his phone. Crouching onto the floor, he fished it out of his pocket and put it up to his ear with an unsteady, “Hey.”

It was impossible to face Lydia now. His body was turned away and he was cognizant of how his voice was quieter than normal. Guilt. Worse than post-masturbation guilt. He felt guilty and he could feel Lydia shoot that guilt right into his spine. 

He didn’t deserve this, though. 

Oh fuck, yes he did. 

He deserved every ounce of anger and even hate thrown his way. But he couldn’t help it. Lydia didn’t understand. She probably would never understand his relationship with Malia. Or even accept it. Because she was the reason why he had started to fall for the were-coyote in the first place. 

Because he couldn’t have his banshee.

Maybe there wasn’t even anything to understand. Maybe he was just an asshole; a self-loathing, unconfident shell. He didn’t know. He was too tired to think about it, his nerves too shot from before to take another emotional blow.

He responded to Malia curtly on the phone. Lydia was silent the whole while and that made his stomach churn. He didn’t dare to speak the other’s name as he spoke with the were-coyote. Finally after what felt like an eternity he hung up on her. A glance at his screen let him know that the call only lasted 36 seconds. Huh.

The strength it required to face Lydia was disgusting. He felt disgusted with himself. And when their eyes met he knew she was disgusted with himself, too.

“You didn’t need to answer that.” She challenged.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t. You were busy.”

“She would have kept calling until I answered.”

Lydia sat up. “It was her, wasn’t it.”

“No, it wasn’t. I mean-“

Lydia sprang upright on the bed. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Stiles.” 

She started to collect her things in a flurry of movement. This was the second time today she had done so, but this time it was a lot less composed. Her body moved like a short fuse; nothing seemed calculated, and she hurried through the motions. She wouldn’t look at him. Everything about her was disjointed: her appearance and her aura. 

His heartbeat started to hurt.

“I had to pick up. If I didn’t she would have called and called and then she would of broken through my window to make sure I wasn’t dead. I didn’t want her coming here, Lydia. Do you want her here?”

“Fuck you.” Her voice cracked. It sounded broken.

“C’mon, Lydia…”

“No.” Everything of hers was balled up in her arms. She didn’t even seem to care about anything wrinkling, he noticed with a pang. She stuffed it quickly into her purse. She hadn’t even properly redressed herself. In that moment, he realized how pale her skin seemed. It didn’t look like the normal Lydia: it was the Lydia who discovered a dead body. The Lydia that lost her best friend. 

“I’m not doing this, Stiles. I can’t do this. I’m not going to be that other person.” After a beat, she added softly, “I don’t deserve that.” It didn’t sound like she even believed it.

Stiles wanted to speak up. He wanted to tell her everything was all right. That Malia didn’t matter. That just she did- Lydia. Only she mattered. But he couldn’t find it in himself to lie like that, to bend the truth to momentarily make everything seem so much simpler than it actually was. 

A bandaid wouldn’t solve this: they needed surgery. And Stiles wasn’t a doctor. 

The wound would just have to continue to fester. 

She looked drained of everything; life and willpower. She had never been so disheveled. So surrendered.

It was the same look he saw in the mirror way too often. 

She moved towards the door like a hurricane, hitting into Stiles’ clothes and video game boxes on the floor. She didn’t even look down to see what she had hit. She just hurried towards the exit.

He was done. He heard himself try to speak; then: “Don’t go. I love you, Lydia.”

She stopped. 

She didn’t turn to face him: she just stayed still for a moment. Then, her stillness turned into shaking shoulders and an inward curling spine. 

“No,” she responded, her voice filled with pain, “you don’t.”

And then she slammed her door on the way out.

He heard her quickly thud down his stairs and then out his front door with a bang.

She was gone.

Stiles looked at his hands. His phone was still there. He squeezed it, his own eyes welling up with water.

He threw his phone against the wall and screamed.


End file.
